FICTION, by koruha
by ivybluesummers
Summary: Kogure loves Mitsui, Mitsui loves Rukawa, Sendoh loves... argh! uhm... Another cliched story. And it's a parody. Dedicated to Night Strider.
1. C'mon C'mon

**C'mon C'mon** by _koruha_

It was a story about love. Or whatever.

An unknown and far-eyed lad walked within the terrains of Kanagawa and blustery weathers of anonymous airstreams burned at his thoughts. Kiminobu Kogure never was the slave of the world's stupidity towards its ethic on sexual open-mindedness but he himself was stupid to keep his relationship with Hisashi Mitsui. His choice was open wide for all its worth but he went on becoming the underdog in such matrimony; Mitsui was a man of promiscuity but it only was a pinch in the cheek for Kogure.

Just a week ago he saw the blue-black haired with a woman. It almost became the cause of his insanity but seeing an immediate prophecy of dejection Kogure never confronted his dearest nor the woman; there, on the blockade that obstructed the cobalt waters he sat and contemplated much more frustratingly than in his academics. Metallic drones broke away from the atomic physicality of the trains yet there Kogure was, static in his realizations. He never reached the depths of this aggravation; and now that he has he kept remembering what went wrong, what went bankrupt in their two-year investment of being together.

It all first began the day after Mitsui's former multitude of violence struck the basketball gym. He repented and begged for his empathy beyond friendship; both of them knew of a rough and hidden kind of sentiment attributable to two-years mismatch. The only impediment they had was their peers' volitional assent and it was achieved by straightforwardly far. A day after and affection was discerned and it went superlative in its own ardor archetypes. Romance was an imperative but the two didn't see it that way; their relationship was larger-than-life.

Brushing away a curtain of thick tresses that vaguely barred his sight he stared at the sky just in time to see the daybreak. It was then when he saw Mitsui standing in the corner of the Shohoku fields; alas he was there not for the brown-eyed but for someone else. It was barely of a day though with four eyes Kogure had he was sure he saw Mitsui kissed that someone, zeal in its exploit and the lot.

Though he still don't know what went wrong he kept harking back the days of waywardness of his dearest. This wasn't because he loved the ex-gangster; he was fearful of solitude among its other constituents. In these nostalgias Kogure could only laugh at himself as far as his logic goes; it only was past two-hours upon his vista of Mitsui and Rukawa together. In the end, he wondered; all the russet-eyed wanted to know was the other's appreciation of what they had. Finding answers in questions that in the first place are mere accounts of past does not reckon and surmise the meaning of it all; thus Kogure broke down by the bays and he was alone. C'mon Mitsui, break Kogure's heart before day breaks.

Down at an unknown park somewhere where the bays and Shohoku High meet, it was exactly an hour and forty-five minutes ago where Rukawa on the other hand was expressionless the moment Mitsui drew alongside. Not because it was his usual demeanor but it was an attitude tattered between apathy and commiseration. It was a year ago after he lusted for Mitsui and got reciprocated. It was a passion conflagration (1). The moment his pervert endeavors was retorted was when he saw Mitsui helping himself down at the showers of the basketball gym; Kogure wasn't there so he needed some facilitation. As stretches of time grew larger they were no longer coincidences but premeditated correlations and happenstances; Kogure can be thoughtful but he's too smart for the both and so schemed for Mitsui and Kogure's break-up – the woman whom the blue-eyed ex gangster went with was Rukawa's cousin and helped them machinate an emotional landslide for the vice captain and shooting guard.

After everything else he chose to feel apathy than remorse in Kogure for the former was easier to feel and the latter a punch away from psychosis. Mitsui, conversely, is a touch away from lunatic guilt. C'mon Mitsui, break Kogure's heart again for old time's sake.

A taller lad in his vividly pale crust of cellular pathology walked only to be de-familiarized by his concept of agony. Sure it was painful to agonize on certain aspects but it never felt heartrending than the sounds he's hearing; running away was at best list but it radically went at the last as soon as the lad saw acquaintance at the other's physicality.

In the end, Mitsui thought he felt like he really loved Kogure. C'mon Mitsui, break Kogure's heart for all that it takes.

* * *

Note: (1) Night Strider's concept and fanfic of Mitsui's relationship with Rukawa (and Kogure); this chapter was inspired by my addiction in Sheryl Crow's album "C'mon C'mon". Reviews/Flames are welcome. 


	2. Deaf, Mute

**Deaf/Mute **by _koruha_

It was a story about deceit. Or whatever.

Strange gentle bore Kiminobu Kogure was supposed to keep the gymnasium shipshape because the captain was gone early applying for college. It was no longer unclean but he was adamant at keeping it sterile at its literal sense and so strolled towards the locker room for some disinfectants. He has told his dearest he'd be home early though.

Acute dribbles of the showers resounded together with those seemingly odd noises. Kogure metamorphosed holden Caulfield (1) as his hearing prophesized familiar voices rasped by the endlessness of the night; he was mute as his consciousness affixed his body by the doors of the locker room in apprehension that he might be caught eavesdropping and all. At a span not more than a second he mulled over decisions of opening the door or prying; rationally but intuitively he shelved composure and kept on listening. He was supposed to keep the gymnasium sterile but it seems like the bore has forgotten all about it.

Peculiar sounds turned rhythmic, almost teasing the chocolate-eyed; in a spool of a heartbeat it was no denying now that Kogure heard Mitsui groan agitated almost persuasive in sexual realms. In a resolve to unearth truth he thus tried to touch the doorknob but was reminded of his fear when he heard Rukawa whisper lucid enough for the vice-captain's ears.

"Fuck me raw."

A portrait of the shooting guard and rookie in their own lustful confidence materialized in front of Kogure and he was deaf; as his eyes roamed roundabout the miniature cavity at the doorknob's keyhole his four other senses stopped functioning. Skidding grief later he nonetheless closed his eyes but still felt like seeing and fully sentient of the erotic canvas by the locker room; even a blink he wasn't closing his eyes after all but only a desire to close it. Moans started to journey and there was Mitsui beaming; gulps of air started raising like it were loud verbalizations and two blue-eyed boys broke off, vigilant yet instantaneous, and Kogure ran to hide.

Mitsui's head darted quickly and his ability to see jerked traveling the empty gymnasium. Exasperated yet substantiated sighs took flight from the blue-black haired and the door closed; or so he thought. Kogure came running to flee but there was no declining now and thus degenerate the painful urge to see the dreamy animal appetites of both Shohoku players.

By then the door was slightly ajar and the chocolate-eyed could see it all, the naked glory of Mitsui thrusting inside Rukawa whose face was filled with emotions that manifested only once in Kogure's life; the raven-haired mouthed Mitsui's name and craved more and the other surely granted the wish.

Kogure heeded and kept an eye, vision against earshot. A loud brutish wheeze took off from Mitsui's mouth and there their bodies lay into clenched ones; unexplored depths were discovered as the two kissed feverishly. What music and art were sex to Kogure it was an irrefutable debate as his eyes finally closed; skin touching skin and two blue-eyed basketball players' dusted perspiration and cupidity to Kogure's perspective at that.

Shunning any more impairment Kogure decided to go. Remote difficulty refrained him to do so and he didn't know why it was difficult; in most cases it should rather be easy walking out away from any more turncoats of love. And he besides could just cuff the door up and walk straight and at one-glance kill them both, sauntering from a threadbare ego and gust everything away at his touch. With bodies entwined Kogure stared long enough to replay it over his mind; it was obscure yet the chocolate-eyed found it rather amazing, symptoms starting to boil in the end: insanity.

Time beckoned twenty minutes and with a more determined mind and body Kogure left the gymnasium with a loud thud on one of its doors. It didn't matter if he's been heard, his worth all along construed in disrespect and mockery.

* * *

Note: (1) A reference from Salinger's 'Catcher in the Rye' and the character's symbolism. 


	3. Fairy Tales

**Fairy Tales **by _koruha_

It was a story about fairy tales. Or whatever.

Was it merit at all now that the bondage has broken it didn't occur at the eccentric bore sitting by the azure bays of Kanagawa. Much in this misery is fear that lurks in the shadows of his psyche and rummaging for another victim. Solitude. He feared the phenomenon that arose from the philosophies of Nietzsche; that man is undoubtedly solitary if not overshadowed by the haze of anguish and meaninglessness in life, or was it Schopenhauer who thought of that?

Kiminobu Kogure knew too well the activity that has been hypothesizing his sadness; too old of a concept for a boy but brackish tasted winds riddled at his face. Rising above sadness his wake perception collided and felt low.

How obtuse was he to assume!

He was average, a boredom to those whose concept of splendor is measured by mysterious persona, refined tresses and velvety yet robust flesh advocated by the intellectuals of orthodox thinking. Conformity. And yet he still assumed that Mitsui would love him for all that he is, for all the insipidness that he is; he was blinded by this mere assumption he declared to be a faithful certainty.

Convictions are rather enemies of truth than lies (1).

Kogure is converting ninety's Vash-into-Knives. He thought that life was about the high calibers of virtue that can kill all the evils in this world like machineguns giving out everything from love; it was enough to realize this but the eccentric bore took turns on his thought. Life is no fairy tale book where happiness is magic's touch away; life is not a book where you can look over the appendix to cheat.

Yet together they seemed perfect were they? Gentle and rough, yin and yang to be dramatic; but Kogure understood it was another cliché from hackneyed basis for romantic love stories. How could a fine lad fall head over heels to a gentle monotony like him?

"It's not to compromise; it's out of sight,"

Kogure looked up.

Hisashi Mitsui swore to the defunct skies that wherever the russet-eyed may be he must be well. The former MVP hoped and almost prayed for the other's emotional health though it wasn't long ago when he noticed a growing symptom in Kogure, which was a process of struggle against neurosis. A swift body language and he swiveled to turn away from the sleeping fox beside him. He was lunatic in guilt.

It all transpired some months ago when he took in the yet most profound and painful knowledge he reflected in his lifetime: that he does not deserve such chaste creature as Kogure. He attempted cheating on life by depending on Kogure; he thought that fairy tales come true and with magic's touch going back to the good life was as easy as having a cup of tea. It all seemed preposterous for the admired rough Mitsui yet he still believed; he believed that redemption comes from the virtues highly of a caliber, that salvation was an inch away from acceptance and compassion, that life is torn only between delinquency and nobility.

Everything is possible (2).

Hisashi Mitsui was turning millennium's Tori Amos' Mary; he thought that dark life is illuminated awake by untainted existence. Mitsui turned immature to further enrage the russet-eyed and thus break-up with him; promiscuity was only a pinch in the cheek after all. Conspiring with Kaede he polluted himself further and entered the realms of lust that fostered intimacy by the way – and it's all good, at least.

"It's out of sight,"

Akira Sendoh repeated again for the coffee-eyed to hear. A smile crept popular on his face yet the other didn't care and wiped his face away instead. It was already dark and the waters looked overcast from some unknown reason. The moon shed light but it wasn't appreciated, Kogure fixing himself up and preparing to leave too.

"What can a stoic do to make me stir anyhow?" he whispered, but it all appeared dreamy at the chocolate-eyed.

Sendoh backed away to find empty spaces for his dejected offer for company. He was known to be a façade of a jester, his repute a phobic to boredom; the spike-haired was known to be a shepard of exquisiteness that boasts basketball talent and aptitude that melt women and men alike with the most popular smile yet. Sendoh was known to be the prince of deceptive beauty and Kogure knew of it.

"I'm sorry; t'was only to stop your cries."

"You don't even care. How could you stop me?"

"Look, I'm sorry. I wish no bitterness but I've got no sway on that sure,"

"Good you know that."

"You're sick?"

Silence. Kogure could only chuckle at the ire replaced by awkward amusement; the spike-haired on the other hand dropped a sweat with a quizzical look and another smile crept on his face and this made the chocolate-eyed nonchalant again for some reminiscing reasons.

"Are you?"

"No; but Uozumi is. I'm threading to his house."

"Well you better not make your teammate wait."

"Kiminobu Kogure right?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't seem to be him," the lad by then walked and indeed threaded through the evening, slipping away at the asphalt roads of Kanagawa. Winds fluttered cold at Kogure and flickered his brown tresses in the struggle of finding meaning; he could only brush it back and went the opposite direction then.

* * *

Notes: Quotes, (1) from Nietzsche; (2) from Sartre as regards to existentialism; Vash and Knives are from Trigun. Tori Amos' latest single is "Mary". 


	4. Absolutely Zero

**Absolutely Zero** by _**ivybluesummers** & koruha_

It was a story of a thousand thoughts. Or whatever.

How is he to say that the situation was excellent in all its value? These were the thoughts of the russet-eyed. He woke up frenzied in the morning but he still executed his façade of unknowing; wondering the peace that has been hypocritical he stayed smiling at his acquaintances. There were ragged glasses at the porch of his neighbor's house – it was morning – and as he walked leaves from an old oak tree flailed but winds were bare as the sunlight threw warmth at his back.

Kiminobu have stood inside the outlined landscapes of Shohoku High as his thoughts zipped cyclical at the sovereignty of dejection meandering at his psyche. He walked a bit more to notice rough buildings and students that conversed in their typical voice and enthusiasm; a bicycle was shackled at the corner of the gymnasium and he thought it was from Kaede. Synchronizing self-possession he went inside a building. Academics were as great as it must be and after some hesitant minutes entered the gymnasium.

Those were the thoughts of the russet-eyed.

A ball swiftly dashed in the air and Hanamichi made a rebound. Kaede would not concede and blocked the red-haired but the so-called genius passed it to Ryota and a lay-up was performed. Seconds after Kiminobu faltered to look into Ayako another game started. At the tip of the noises outside with all the crackles of the high school sceneries Haruko clutched at the silence overgrowing at the gymnasium; no one was talking as if they were all disabled and only had eyes that spoke prosperous gist as their only communicative skill. A three-point shot was made and a whistle was finally heard loud enough for Takenori's sister to hear; it all seemed wistful and vague and the girl thought she was imagining things – it was only a late realization then that she has been looking intently at the red-haired, a blush at her pale cheeks showing.

"Assemble!"

At the pavements with the intervening orange sun Kiminobu offered Haruko company; their conversation was a pretense and both knew of it. It was only some minutes ago that the practice ended, Takenori out early for some reasons known only for his sister. They were walking charade and affectation but it was better than not talking at all when suddenly Kiminobu stopped at his tracks and Haruko, concerned, drew alongside.

"Anything wrong sempai?"

Kiminobu brushed his brown tresses back up in time to see the daybreak. He heaved a big sigh and smiled pompously. "I was holden caulfied, Haruko."

"Eh?"

"I was judgmental and I was prick for the whole lot of it,"

"Kogure-sempai,"

"Someone just gave me the cold shoulder."

"What do you mean, sempai?"

"Neither of us are accountable because it was only a prospect; but I'd be the happiest man because I know I took it."

"Is it--" she said, knowing all is easy.

"Yes Haruko-san."

"And I'll live my life well from now on; I better be happy and that no one knows. Except you and Takenori. You two have keen intuition."

"I'd take that as a compliment."

"Sure you do."

Haruko didn't know what to come back with. She sure was an acquaintance but that was all; and barely of a lad like the one in front of him to disclose such sad story. "Promise me, Haruko-san, never speak of it again and so shall I. I'm sorry for being like this."

"It's okay."

They walked further and eventually separated; Haruko was grateful and so was the other. As winds waved goodbye it was only a matter of inspired creativity when Haruko walked up to her room and made narrative of the absolutely zero certainty. Yes, the boy is gone home.

It was a crowd of emptiness when all that Kogure could hear were the ticks of the clock and the rustles of the wind touching foliage; he was savoring isolation from the world up above its social worth and possibilities and the chocolate-eyed was only happier to have headed home before Mitsui and Rukawa catch him. The russet-eyed was gone.

Kogure and Mitsui both loved each other but it was now nothing more than a word that fell silence at the pinnacle of what they spoke; there were no emotions now to dance up their awareness of what they are – emptiness was rather a lovelier revelry than to feel angst or despair for they take audacity and the russet-eyed does not have such. There was a stinging sentiment that loitered on Kogure days after that incident; he was growing nonchalant in pretense and miserable deep inside but he knew that the only thing that would keep them together was faith that crossed oceans of misgivings and negativity. He would no longer kiss and make allowances for it; he'd rather be a domicile freak than to purport the relationship that is tumbling by the moment. He knew that it would be futile; the boy was already gone.

And everytime he feels like solitarily unrepeated he blames Mitsui for making him beg the world some more innocence, but he had his choice and brought himself down. The world elapses like slinking winds Kogure could only muster – it cannot be changed and it can only be faced; it was getting worse day by day but the russet-eyed didn't want to let go. He was afraid of the consequences, afraid that that the world would no longer cry for the innocent.

How is he to say that the situation was excellent in all its value? This was the thought of the russet-eyed.


	5. On Dots and Marks

**On Dots and Marks** by _koruha_

I need you.

To look into my eyes.

And tell me what it says.

For I cannot bear such impertinence.

Wait, oh wait.

Have I not been lying?

Have I jolted you.

From your mistaken ice?

How I've wondered.

Long enough.

For me to tell you that.

I need you.

To feel the beat of the heart.

Can you feel it?

How does it feel.

When you turn off the lights?

How I've wanted to say that.

I need you.

To hear my whispers.

Of sentiments.

Where there are no lies.

Can you hear it?

I've been wanting to tell you that.

I need you.

To smell the gasps.

Of longing and loneliness.

Can you sense it?

The reek of solitude?

I've wanted to tell you that.

I need you.

To taste the food for thought.

That you and I.

Come hand in hand.

How does it savor?

It's been years.

And it will be years.

Or will it be real.

That I'll finally see.

Hear and feel.

Smell and taste.

You.

I've wondered.

And I've wanted to tell you that.

I need you.

* * *

Note: this is my own poem. 


	6. Breakfast at Tiffany's

**Breakfast at Tiffany's** by **_ivybluesummers_** _& koruha_

It was a story about a same ground. Or whatever.

A yielded sigh it was and Haruko never identified with a red C embossed at the paper she's holding; her poem was supposed to be an existential parody for Rilke's 'You Who Never Arrived'. Or whatever. Haruko's class was over then as soon as the bell rung and walked unhurried and clung herself low from other students; it wasn't too long for a past – three days to be exact – when her russet-eyed sempai was well. She was promised that and the mere genuine smiles appearing on Kiminobu's face testify to that.

Yesterday she saw Akira Sendoh and Shinichi Maki by the Shohoku terrains about basketball perhaps; not that she weighs attention on them anyway – and walked up more. She wondered in her blissful discomfort only to discover herself dragged in the basketball gymnasium; flushed glow she had on her face then when Hanamichi in his school uniform walked up to him with red roses on his arms and a sore on his head, an indication of her brother's thump. Hanamichi didn't practice.

The sun ruptured dusk and the bays felt cooler than it used to; it was mounting autumn but Kogure felt winter at the sight of undergrowth dying from vacant winds that passed the contradiction of his senses and psyche. He arched at the seemingly uninviting windows plastered at the face of the anonymously disenchanted brown-eyed, sundry yet razed like an angel. Slightly gradual he looked up the cerulean sky and coldness tasted nauseating cigarettes; the thin line between night and day paraded throughout Kanagawa and within seconds prepared to leave.

Or not. "You again."

No reply though. Sendoh smiled and got the brown-eyed peeved; their eyes converged at the waters as a stone metaphorically escaped its velocity and soared as it bounced on the bays, Sendoh's eyes imperturbable. "You; look at you." The other was soundless.

"I know you're here,"

"You always stride darkness; course you do. Why are you here anyway?" What gaze on the spike-haired Kogure could not make sense of?

"Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we still endure (1),"

"We?! How dare say—"

Stillness besieged them and Kanagawa was disconsolate for them both; Kogure could not continue lamenting from seconds understanding of Sendoh's own woes. "You are watertight gorgeous and you won't need woes to beg for love,"

"People always tell me that; I know I am." Kogure was comically serious, a sweat dropping on his forehead. "Tell me, what have you got to offer me?"

"I'm a drip. I don't fancy you anyway."

"Eh? Me too."

"Never ask that again."

"Sure."

"Do you love fishing?"

"Studying."

"Lemons?"

"Watermelons."

"Converse?"

"Mizuno."

"Rhythm and blues?"

"Jazz and classical."

"Action flicks?"

"Philosophical drama." Is there such a thing?

"Color blue?"

"Red."

"We've got nothing in common, eh?" the spike haired smiled, tranquil in distractions.

"Who would care?"

Silence. The sun is finally crippled and the sounds of the train murmured metal and abrasion; waves of water rushed by the rock-strewn shore fastened on the blockaded seats and it felt counting dewdrops and all those petty phenomena. Sendoh disturbed silence's sleep then.

"Do you love basketball?"

"Certainly."

"Then it's one thing we've got."

Kogure was hardly a teenage skeleton breaking out in the closet, in the brink of courage and virtually in love; he fabricated existence with his own unnoticed ways. He hears the winds crying and telling that paradise is only a parody of what people often think they know; in these mists he voyaged pessimism and thus floated on waters disdainfully toppled from lunacy.

And so he probed for answers like an academician himself and ran through so many enterprises in his war for sanity, trying to end his predicaments; that is, how to smile without being suicidal, how to be well enough to ask comfort, how to be happy for Mitsui and Rukawa and not point his finger at them. The vanity he kept in his panic for loneliness kept him on the run.

And three and a half weeks ago it was the last time he fell from it. It was odd of a feeling and yet he was eager finding his path towards sanity. It was the difference and it felt better.

* * *

Notes: (1) quote from Rainer Maria Rilke, and no, it's not from 'You Who Never Arrived'; I just assumed their favorites except for the lemon and fishing thing; Sendoh wears Converse and Kogure Mizuno. It got mushy I think. 


	7. Summer Son

**Summer Son **by _koruha &** ivybluesummers**_

It was a story for all its worth. Or whatever.

Stairs were rough but effortlessly the spike-haired lad scaled against it. Sunday morning savored saccharine dryness at the expressional adieu of winter; snowflakes have liquefied amidst sunbeams and jewels of glossy water echoed dappled hues of red and blue and yellow – budding plants perched on the awnings of hundred-year-old shrine Kogure's grandmother kept. It was springtime though it felt like summer nevertheless; Kogure was trite chronicling grief over and over past his story of Mitsui and Rukawa. He knew of the passion conflagration that has been burning for them both, the Shohoku locker room a witness to that. Two months ago Sendoh asked him to reconsider their differences so as not to repeat history; it was an open door for all that it means and it aches like waiting hopelessness. It was nothing of a dream, vanishing to cleanse faith; it was not until the two individuals unlikely made liaison through basketball and woes – it was shallow for a common ground, barely of a jiffy – but there Sendoh was, ascending the flight of steps towards his dearest.

Kogure was the summer son.

Sakuragi told them of spikey and glasses-boy; on the other side of Kanagawa, Mitsui and Rukawa were floating images of shorelines and streams of warm winds. The fox could only smile then at his appreciation at the molded diversity of life – only the blue-eyed ex gangster can make him smile. Basketball was best blown on his own horn. Mitsui alternatively may well gratify himself on his last reminiscence of Kogure crying, and down to his last gesture of bathing at the Enoshima coast he actually thanked the defunct skies obviously the gods at granting his entreaty for the russet-eyed's welfare.

It was hardly a story. But it had a happy ending.

A late realization hit Haruko; she was a transcendental plagiarist and subsequently apologized to caprice silhouettes of a certain russet-eyed and other cobalt-eyed's. At the screen that gritted her eyes from soreness she printed out eleven parchments for her literature class; quickly she took them, scoring out the file at the terminal. She slid down the stairs smiling at his brother by the sofa watching idiot box and finally went to their domestic incinerator by the garage and burned the papers; a few minutes after requesting time off she strolled with Hanamichi for a date regretfully thinking at the obtuse assumption she had for the past months.

Kiminobu Kogure had really loved Ayako.

The outwardly carnival lad of raw cobalt eyes entwined his hands at the average bore; a kiss was softly buried at Kogure's forehead and that's all there is, nothing more and nothing less. It was springtime but they were already summer's sons.

* * *

Note: this fic is supposed to be a food for thought; all I'd say is that this is actually a non-yaoi fic. This fic is dedicated for Night Strider; thanks for allowing me to use passion conflagration. Ciao! 


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